Between Miracles and Curses
by Gitana del Sol
Summary: written for the Quidditch League challenge, round 9, in which Ron Weasley must chose to tolerate a miracle or give up on a curse. Score: 10/10


**This was written for round 9 of the Quidditch League Challenge. I had to give one of the Trio a disability, either psychological or physical. I chose to give Hermione PTSD, seeing as she was tortured, knew the likelihood that her parents would be tortured and murdered, and then just seeing all the death that war brings. All three are considered traumatic events.**

**I chose three prompts: **Birthday, She was just too quiet these days, "Just because you can explain it doesn't mean it's not still a miracle."

**Word Count: 1,567**

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She used to fight it. As unhealthy as it was and as bad as things got, I still knew that she was in there, somewhere, struggling to stay in control. There would be days where things would seem normal. She would go to work, she would accompany me to dinners and events. We were just like everyone else: a young married couple hopelessly in love with each other. She would smile, she would laugh, she would put up a good front. Sometimes, I could just let myself believe her when she said she was fine, and I could forget what would happen once our front door closed behind us. Behind our walls, hidden away from the rest of the world, she would rage and cry and scream. She was terrified of being left alone but got anxious if there were too many people; she craved intoxication pills and burning drinks but refused food and water. She went through the days in a hazy daydream and yet avoided sleeping for fear of what she would see in her nightmares. She would shout at me and slap me and then burst into tears, running from me as if I were going to punish her. Terrified, ashamed, and completely helpless, she both rejected help and welcomed it, afraid to lose herself if she relied on someone else and but terrified of what would happen if she _didn't_.

I picked up the third refill of the pills on the same day I bought the three dozen balloons. 36 floating spheres of red, blue, pink, purple, and yellow for Rosie; 31 tiny white circles for Hermione. And one round vanilla cake with pink icing to help bring us all together for just one day.

But those damn pills! The wizardry potions were not enough so we turned to Muggle anti-depressants and anti-psychotics. They took about a month to kick in, and once they did she was calmer – _much_ calmer. She could sit in a chair, back straight, perfectly poised, hair shining, skin clean, and nails manicured. She was a painted portrait of perfection, staring, staring, staring out into something, or maybe nothing at all, not moving, not speaking, not living. It unnerved me sometimes because although she had stopped raging, I could not always see her. Sometimes she was nothing but a shell, a hollow vessel void of a soul, and I would become afraid, forcing her to look at me until I saw a glimpse, a faint glimmer, of her hiding behind those glazed eyes. It was as if she had given up. She was just too quiet these days! But I daren't say anything; I had to be strong, had to see her through this.

"Has she moved from that spot at all?" Harry asked me in a low voice. I could hear the concern in his voice; Hermione was, after all, his friend, too. I knew he was just inquiring about her health; I knew he was just as worried as I was, as I had been those first couple of months. But it rubbed me the wrong way, him saying it like that, as if he were judging me, as if it were my fault that she had not overcome this. I did not need someone else voicing the fears and insecurities whispering in my head: that I wasn't good enough, that I wasn't strong enough, that I wasn't what she needed. I could not snap her out of these trances. I could not pull her out from this dark tunnel that was posttraumatic stress.

"She's fine, alright? Fine. The Healers say that this is normal, perfectly normal. She goes into these trances to deal with the negative emotions. It's because her mind is having an informational overload, it's just remembering all the bad times."

"Ron…we all went through that, and we aren't having so much trouble dealing with it. I think you need to seek stronger help."

"Oh, come off it! She was tortured, Harry, _tortured_! That's even more traumatic. The Healers say it could be years. Her mind just cannot deal with all the pain on its own, and the medicine…it has its side effects. Just…try to be understanding, okay? I mean, everyone in this room are triggers, and after Rosie her hormone levels have been really unbalanced…She's doing really well, the Healers are always impressed by her progress, with all that she's been through." Shit, there it was, my defensive tone. There were just so many things that made her condition worse. I had researched it all: major depressive disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, post-partum depression. I read, I asked, I went to sessions – over and over and over until I could recite it in my sleep. I had to know, I had to understand. I needed to help her get through this.

I realized Harry wasn't looking at me. He was glancing away, an expression of barely hid pity on his face. Or maybe it was perfectly hidden, and I just knew him too well to fall for it.

"Ron, just because you can explain it doesn't make it a miracle."

I spun towards him, scrutinizing his face, glaring until he was forced to look at me, to face me. A thought came into my mind that this was exactly the situation the Healer was talking about, when he said I needed to have the patience to deal with people who didn't understand, who didn't know what we were going through. I had to have the patience to teach people, to explain to them that what Hermione was going through – what _I _was going through was not all that uncommon, and that things of this sensitive nature took time. That potions and pills were not easy quick-fixes. But I could not. I had no patience. I felt exposed, betrayed, unraveled.

"Yea well just because it isn't perfect doesn't mean it's a curse!"

I didn't even give him a chance to respond or offer up an apology. I just turned my back and stormed away. I walked straight to my mother, whom I knew would have a vigilant eye and protective arms around my daughter. She relinquished her hold on her granddaughter without much protest, for which I was grateful. Rose, my baby Rosie. All of her features were mine: the long nose, the red hair, the generous dusting of freckles. She had inherited only Hermione's eyes: large, brown, intent and intelligent.

Merlin, I loved her!

Bouncing Rosie on my hip, I walked over to her mother. I had hoped that she would look up; I had hoped that she would greet us with a smile before I came to a halt at her side. But I was painfully disappointed.

"Hermione," I greeted her gently. "Hermione, darling, why don't you come socialize? Darling? Hey!" I rubbed her shoulder, relieved when she finally did look up. She was groggy, disoriented, the pills working their effect. Muggle medicine. I had not liked it much but Hermione was all green lights for it so I yielded. As long as she was willing I would try anything.

"Hello, Ron," she said with a dazed smile. In my arms, Rosie squirmed and began to moan, keeping up a steady stream of a drumming whine. She reached out an arm towards her mother but kept the other securely around my neck; she wanted her mother's love but the need to shelter and protection kept her firmly in my embrace.

"You should come talk with people. It might do you good. Besides, Rosie wants you to enjoy her first birthday party."

She frowned as if confused, looking at the baby in my arms as if she had never seen it before. I swallowed nervously, waiting for her brain to catch up with her senses. And then, just as it always did, sweet recognition passed through her features and she smiled.

"Rosie. Hello, baby."

Rosie squealed and babbled, happy to be addressed. Hermione raised a hand to finger Rosie's palm. The tiny chubby hand wrapped around the pale finger, all fingers curling around tightly as if afraid to let go. It was as if she knew that her mother was going through a tough time, as if she understood that we needed to anchor her to the reality or forfeit her to the terror of her own nightmares. It took a bit of coaxing but I was finally able to get Hermione to leave her solitary chair and to go around making small talk with the guests and have a bit of cake and tea.

It had been nine years since the war. She had gained so much – the right to practice magic, a stable job, a doting husband (for whatever else I was, I would never love someone else as much as I loved that woman), and a free Britain for our child to grow up in. But it came at so high a cost. Moments like these were rare and more of a façade than normalcy. I didn't know if things would ever get better, if Hermione would ever return to that clever, feisty witch I had fallen in love with so long ago. But I knew that I had to continue viewing this as just an obstacle, as just a hill we were climbing over. Because if I began to see it as an irreversible curse, then there would be no one left believing in her, fighting for her.

And it would all have been for naught.


End file.
